Holiday
by Are Are
Summary: "Still Jimmy could recall, with eerily perfect clarity, the first time he had ever lain eyes upon the Masked Man." A modern AU. Jimmy goes to the cinema and falls in love.


**PART ONE**

* * *

Jimmy had been barely seventeen when the Downton Theatre advertisements first aired on television. They were stupid, low-budget things- basically a handheld camera deal- and the sound was all off, just like a million other cheap adverts thrown together by entrepreneurs who didn't know any better. Still Jimmy could recall, with eerily perfect clarity, the first time he had ever lain eyes upon the Masked Man.

Jimmy had been seated on the floor, his back against the worn floral sofa that was the centerpiece of the Nugent family's flat. They were on winter holiday. Jimmy remembered all of it- Alfred's ungainly sprawl along the sofa behind him, the way the nubby carpet had felt under the palms of his hands, the gleam of the pink lights adorning the artificial tree in the corner. In the streets snow had been piling up, silently and seasonably. There had been no indication that anything at all interesting was going to happen.

Jimmy could not recollect what his mood had been, precisely, in the moments before. All he knew were simple images- and even in his memory the images had no sound. _Die Hard_- that king among all holiday pictures- had gone to a break, and Alfred had risen to his feet, and vanished into the kitchen. Noiselessly. Perhaps Alfred's feet had made a sound against the wood and linoleum of the floors- perhaps a tune had played in Jimmy's head, or a thought had scraped idly along his brain- but he had no remembrance of it. In his memory Jimmy looked only at the television screen.

An advertisment bloomed to life upon the screen- a still shot of a theatre, with red seats. And then, in Jimmy's recollection- sound flooded back. The _first_ sound of this particular memory. Jimmy did not know why the jingle should have stayed with him so, as if he had known the import of what he was about to see- or if it was only that, in his own mind's amendments to the instances of his life, Jimmy had applied the music that he would forever after associate with the Downton Theatre.

On the screen the tinny tune began to play, in concordance with the picture. The music was an upbeat bastardization of the song '_Did I Make The Most Out of Loving You'_- and Jimmy's first thought was one of distaste- it sounded like an amateur was attempting classics on a harmonica.

But then- but then a man- the _Masked_ Man- ran across the still background, spinning in a circle.

For a moment Jimmy thought nothing at all of the man. Alfred was making popcorn on the kitchen stove- Jimmy could smell it, and dimly hear the kernels bursting against the lid of the pot. In a moment Alfred would bring back snacks- overseasoned, as always- Alfred had grand culinary ambitions- and the prospect of food was infinitely more interesting than badly-constructed commercials. His mind more than half occupied, Jimmy stared at the telly without expectation. The man onscreen was dressed in a cheap- it looked like a cheap _Zorro_ costume- so poorly outfitted that even on the tiny screen Jimmy found it laughable. As the figure moved, his cape swirling, he brandished a rapier that looked suspiciously rubbery, and a woman spoke in a less-than-perfectly articulated voiceover.

_"The Mad Masked Moviegoing Man has brought new and exciting things to the Downton Theatre!"_ The woman exclaimed, in a strained voice that conveyed rather less enthusiasm than she had been obviously aiming for. On the screen the man fought invisible enemies against a black and white shot of the theatre's exterior- and then he cavorted through an empty hall, with a lit-up concession stand, throwing his rapier left and right. An ill-conceived font next to the Masked Man proclaimed a newer and better theatre experience in concordance with the voiceover- "_Midnight Showings! Saturday Evening Dinner Theatre! Silent Film Festivals! Live Music! Two for the Price of One Mondays! All this and more! Come downtown to Downton and have the experience of a lifetime!"_

Jimmy had watched and listened with some vague amusement- and then- and _then_- had been the very moment that, in retrospect, was his undoing: the camera zoomed in.

Well, it did not so much zoom as stutter- the scene flickered, and then a close-up of the Masked Man filled the left side of the screen. Behind him was a shot- not just a stock photo but a real _shot_- of the Downton Theatre's exterior. The letters of the cinema's sign burned electric and orange in the night- and, conspiratorally close to the viewer, the Masked Man tipped a wink that was barely visible under the brim of his hat and the cloth of his black eyelet mask, and said, in a haughty voice: "You'd be mad to miss it!"

It seemed as if the world inside the flat had frozen suddenly. Jimmy stared, for an impossible length of time, at the mouth of the Masked Man. His lips were dark- and curved upwards- and his barely visible eyes seemed to dance with merriment. The uptilt of the man's mouth was both charming and derisive at once- and at the imperious edges of his lips, his cheekbones fell down in perfect lines, slicing his face into facets. Like a diamond.

_Uh-oh_, Jimmy thought. He had thought the phrase so distinctly that it seemed as if another voice had spoken from within the room.

With one last swirl of the sword in his hand, the Masked Man vanished, as the advert ended.

The television switched to an advertisement for discount clothes, but Jimmy remained very still. He wondered, for a moment, if he had not imagined the interlude in its entirety. When Alfred returned, food in hand, the picture was playing again.

"Do you know anything about the Downton Theatre?" Jimmy asked. He himself had heard of the place- it had limped along, not particularly drawing a crowd with its second-run pictures- all through Jimmy's childhood. But he had never been.

"Huh? Oh," Alfred said, through a mouthful of popcorn. "Yeah. The Downtown Theatre. My Aunt Sarah works for the wife of the owner. She used to take me to matinees."

"Down_ton_," Jimmy corrected, looking away from Alfred, to the garish lights of the artificial tree. "Y'never told me that. What about the Masked Man?" Jimmy asked- and Alfred gave him an odd look. On the television, Alan Rickman said, _"Mr. Takagi, I could talk about industrialization and men's fashion all day, but I'm afraid work must intrude-"_

"What Masked Man?" Alfred asked, reaching forward, for another handful of his overly-peppered popcorn.

"I don't know," Jimmy said, and shook his head. "Nevermind."

The image of the tree blurred, the edge of the memory unraveling- the film was lost, the taste of the popcorn gone. When Jimmy looked back over his own life, it astonished him that even he _himself_, the sole proprietor of his memories, could forget so many of his own experiences.

* * *

In three years the Masked Man had become famous within the city, in the tongue-in-cheek sort of way that popular characters from advertising did. A grand old revival of the Downton Theatre had commenced. Their programs were clever- an endless stream of silent film retrospectives and art film festivals and little indie pictures kept the institution in well with University students and young hipster couples. The catered Saturday dinner theatre had the loyalty of the older people. And, once a month, there was a showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show that not only allowed but practically begged audience participation.

Alfred had been trying to persuade Jimmy to come out to the theatre for ages. After Downton had, once again, become a place that one might actually want to _go_ to, Alfred had been all over it, getting discounted tickets from his Aunt Sarah for their extended group of friends. "It's the last of the great picture palaces from the twenties still standing in this area," Alfred had informed Jimmy, sounding as though he were reciting what his aunt had told him verbatim. "That Mr. Crawley- the owner- he owns the whole _square, _just about- an' he wanted to sell all the buildings to a contractor who'd tear 'em down- but one of his daughters insisted that they keep it, and fix it, instead."

In an age when theatres were closing left and right, murdered by the ease with which you could get anything digitally, Jimmy supposed it was probably a great feat to have made Downton so prosperous. But, in reality, he didn't give a flying shite whether it was successful or not. "Wonderful," Jimmy had said to Alfred, dryly, and Alfred had frowned at his sarcasm.

"You'd really like it, I'm sure you would," Alfred said. Alfred towered over Jimmy, nearly hunching in the low-ceilinged room, and his brow was furrowed in an expression of concern- and Jimmy, only on his second drink of the day, recognized that _look_ as a prelude to a lecture.

"Yeah, I'll go sometime," Jimmy said, in a placating tone.

"You'd only have to take one evening off from your card-games," Alfred said. "It'd probably-"

"Do me good, yeah," Jimmy said, impatiently- but Alfred nodded.

"An' your _hero _is there every Saturday," Alfred added, jerking a thumb towards the corner of the main room of Jimmy's house. When Jimmy's parents had been alive, the space had served as a sitting room- but now a billiards table, piled high with junk, dominated the space. In the corner, past Alfred's pointing finger, a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Masked Man rested against the wall, replete with cape and mask. It had been a gift, from Alfred and Gwen- one that they had laughed themselves stupid over. "Your lover," Gwen had said, solemnly, when Jimmy had torn the paper off- and Jimmy had glowered at her- but he had not been entirely able to hide how pleased he was with it.

Jimmy collected anything that the Masked Man's mug appeared on- newspapers and fliers that he would study once and then put aside, to gather dust in his increasingly disorganized home.

Alfred was still watching Jimmy, with that half-scowl that belied concern- to see if Alfred was concerned you had to watch his mouth, since he had nothing for eyebrows- and Jimmy was about to put him off. There was always more fun to be had at bars- and more money to be had at cards- and if Jimmy had woken up in a dive with his wallet missing once or twice- well, he'd always made back his losses in the end. Alfred acted like Jimmy was unemployed, like he was a layabout, like he was wasting his life away- but Jimmy was _doing_ things. Really he was. The cards were his occupation.

Now Alfred sat down with a sigh on the cushions that lined the floor in lieu of a sofa, and switched the telly on, finding _Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares_ with preternatural ease. Jimmy walked away from him, into the kitchen, and grabbed the lacquered box he kept marijuana in, up on a cabinet shelf. At one point Jimmy had been planning to refinish the cabinetry- but after he had removed the doors all of the fun had gone out of the project- so now open shelves lined the kitchen walls, facing the piano and bench Jimmy kept in lieu of a dining table.

"Fancy a smoke?" Jimmy said, rejoining Alfred on the couch- Alfred was watching Chef Ramsay speak harshly to some irate business owner about how their braised pork belly was an utter disgrace- and he turned to Jimmy, looking him over with a worried eye.

"Maybe we should watch _Intervention_ instead," Alfred said, as Jimmy put his tongue to a rolling paper- and Jimmy had a vivid flash of memory.

Alfred's father had died a scant few months previous. Jimmy could barely remember Mr. Nugent's funeral- it had rained, he remembered that- and Jimmy had shown up late, still drunk from his exertions the evening before. He had jumped out of a taxi halfway through the eulogy, and stood, _sans_ umbrella, in the downpour- at the back of the modest crowd.

Jimmy had been _hammered_, really gone- and so his memory was fuzzy- but he remembered a few things- the pale face of Alfred's dour old aunt- the tears on Mrs. Nugent's cheeks when he had hugged her- and the look of hurt on Alfred's face. No, not just hurt- but disappointment, profound and deep, as if it were Jimmy's behavior, and not only grief, that had wounded him. That look- it seemed to say- _We've been best mates for our whole lives, and you..._

_And I what?_Jimmy wondered. Alfred was switching channels, though it pained him to be away from Ramsay's brand of commercialized wisdom for more than a moment. Jimmy had a dim memory of dropping some of his money- his winnings- from the poker game he had been at all night, out of his pockets- and how he had clumsily gathered up the bills, even as the service went on. _Was I making a spectacle of myself? _Jimmy wondered. He could not remember. The rain and the drink- and the evening before-

After the funeral, Alfred hadn't spoken to Jimmy for a week- and that _never_ happened, not even when Jimmy turned his charms upon whatever girl had struck Alfred's fancy.

If Jimmy had not so suddenly recalled that particular day, and that particular way he had disappointed his closest friend- then guilt would not have moved him to say what he said next. "Fine," Jimmy intoned, in a long-suffering voice. "I'll go with you to the stupid theatre."

"Really!? You will?"

"Really I will," Jimmy said, with a grimace- but Alfred could not be swayed by Jimmy's expression- he looked supremely delighted.

"That's- we'll go Saturday," Alfred was saying, making movements with his arms. "You an' me an' William- and Ivy- you haven't met her yet, but for god _sakes_, Jimmy, don't act all sweet on her- I really like this one- an' you can meet your Masked Man!"

"No," Jimmy said, immediately. "Not on Saturday." He did not want to meet the Masked Man. That would be disastrous, because-

"Friday, then," Alfred said definitively. "After I get out of class. There's- uh- there's a silent picture with live music, a set of back-to-back action movies, a Terry Gilliam triple feature-"

"Why does _William_ have to come?" Jimmy protested. William Mason was Alfred's other best mate, much to Jimmy's endless annoyance- the man had a face like a fish that was two days dead, and roughly the same amount of personality. "Can't we take Gwen instead?"

Alfred looked at Jimmy disbelievingly. "She moved to London three weeks ago. For her job- you were _at_ her going-away party!"

"Oh. So I was," Jimmy said, in a small voice. Now that Alfred said it, it seemed that Jimmy _did_ have some vague, alcohol-imbued memory of the party. But time fairly flew by, what with the endless evenings, and Jimmy could hardly be expected to keep track-

"You're mad," Alfred said. Jimmy would have expected a lecture _then,_ for certain- but Alfred seemed placated enough by Jimmy's acquiescence in the matter of the theatre. They watched shows in companionable silence, for a while, while Jimmy got stoned- and played _Call of Duty_ after.

* * *

Jimmy's parents had been killed in an automobile collision when Jimmy was eighteen, and he had inherited their house, and a moderate amount of money. The money Jimmy spent with frivolity, letting his accounts dip low, and then bringing them back up with his skill at cards, or billiards, always when the situation was beginning to look dire. The house itself was a modest affair in white clapboard- a bit shabby by all accounts, and so close to the train tracks that it rattled to the foundation every time a locomotive passed through. But it was paid for.

The night his parents had died Jimmy had gone home in a daze, feeling numb and half-dead himself, and dreamed of his own funeral, attended by the Masked Man. It was a recurring dream- he'd had it that evening, and on several evenings subsequently. The night before he went to the Downton Theatre for the first time, Jimmy had the dream again.

* * *

"I don't think you're going to get a very big turnout," the Masked Man said, in his elegant voice- and Jimmy scowled at him. The day was filled with sunshine, but snow lay thickly over the earth, and wild woods spilled away from the humble graveyard that they stood within.

"_You_ came, didn't you?" Jimmy said, pointedly. Jimmy observed his own body, layed out in the lacquered coffin. It looked as though he were dead, were _really_ dead- but Jimmy was convinced he was only sleeping. How could he be dead, when such brilliant flowers fell through the air, even in the depths of winter, and the Masked Man stood, elegant as anything, beside him?

"Only I, Ebenezer," The Masked Man said, with a short laugh. "Not even your friend. You pushed everyone away, didn't you?"

"Nah. I didn't," Jimmy said, gruffly. The Masked Man held his rapier drawn, and it caught the light so brightly that it hurt Jimmy's eyes to look at it. Any of the flowers that chanced to fall upon the length of the blade were sliced neatly in half, and fell to the ground in pieces. They were lilies, Jimmy thought- but dark and startling blue in color- and on the snow they looked like the spilt blood of some unfortunate nobility.

"I'm not _Scrooge_," Jimmy added- and he walked away from his prone body and the coffin that enclosed it, towards the man with the mouth that turned always up. The only noise was of the Masked Man's cape, moving in the air. Not even the wind that assuredly ruffled it produced any sound- it was silk against nothing, nothing at all. "He was greedy, wasn't he?"

"There are different ways to be greedy," The Masked Man answered, with that very air of smugness that he always seemed to be possessed of, even in advertisements. "And different ways to be alone."

"I don't want to be alone," Jimmy protested- and when he felt that he could go no further, the Masked Man took a step towards him- and moved his left arm- it appeared from behind his back like an afterthought. In his gloved hand, he held a bouquet of holly- and in the heart of the holly a gold timepiece, on a delicate chain, wound through the leaves and branches. Jimmy had time to observe that the man wore a glove on his left hand- but the hand that held the rapier was bare- and this inconsistency struck him, somehow.

"For you," The Masked Man said, with a half-bow, and Jimmy laughed. "More flowers?" Jimmy asked, gesturing to the petals that fell in profusion around their heads. "D'ya think I'm a _girl_?"

The man's eyes were bold behind the eyelet mask- and he took another forward step- and looked directly downwards, into Jimmy's face. Jimmy felt, in the way that things could be felt only in dreams, the press of the rapier against his hip.

"I'm going to find you," The Masked Man said, reverting to the old fashioned manner which he affected on television. "But we mustn't be unequal. So you'll have to find me, as well."

"I don't know how to _find_ anybody," Jimmy said. The blade's press against him had not eased, and he felt dizzy, as if the last square snowy bit of earth they stood on were spinning on a crooked axis, faster and faster-

"It's really very simple," The Masked Man said- and he put his lips, very briefly, to Jimmy's mouth. "Now. Will you let me come inside? It's bloody _freezing_ out here-"

* * *

The dream didn't make any sense- or, it if did, it was only in the broad and obviously metaphorical way that dreams had sense- and Jimmy had never really _hated_ it, even if it began with the specter of his own mortality.

Jimmy tried not to be preoccupied with the thought of it all day on Friday- but the promise of a visit to the Masked Man's own place of origin gave Jimmy a very curious type of anxiety, which soured his stomach and made him restless. He tapped out music on his ill-tuned piano, only to find that the song he'd played had become _Did I Make The Most Out of Loving You- _he tidied his sitting room haphazardly, sending up great clouds of dust, only to unearth a stack of fliers that Alfred had gotten for him, each printed with an image of the Masked Man peddling an Ingmar Bergman festival that had taken place in August of 2011- and finally he went for a run, taking the long route, so that he would not have to go past the cemetery where his parents were interred. When Jimmy came back, breathless and stinging with the frigid air, he did not immediately pour himself a scotch, though the warmth of it would have done him some good. Some impulse stayed Jimmy's hand- he would not have his wits about him if he drank. This plan for sobriety held until roughly a quarter-hour before Alfred was meant to pick him up- and then Jimmy gave in, and soothed his nerves- not with liquor- but by getting _extremely _high. _What are cinemas good for if not going to stoned?_ Jimmy wondered. And Alfred was more apt to give Jimmy that unhappy _look_ about alcohol than he was about marijuana. Though Jimmy couldn't imagine why.

Thoroughly mellowed, Jimmy gave himself a once-over in the mirror- his clothes were smart- even if he had erred on the side of overdressed- and his coat was nicely cut, and his hair was styled in the manner that most suited him. _Why would it matter how you look?_ Jimmy thought- and then snorted at himself, for the thought. It _always_ mattered how you looked. Looking smart made it less likely that other people would try to push you around for- for whatever reasons that they might think of. Outside, the horn on Alfred's ancient car bleated into the night- and Jimmy pulled on his scarf, and left.

It was a good thing that Jimmy had mellowed himself out, so to speak, or else he would have been too irritated to properly function: the first thing that greeted him as he slipped into the backseat of the car was William Mason's dour face. "Willy," Jimmy said, knowing that William hated the nickname- and William barely contained a grimace as he nodded. It was obvious to Jimmy that William 'didn't approve' of him- that priggish province of old ladies. _Don't approve of me?_ Jimmy thought, stifling a smile. _Well, I don't approve of you either._

In the front seat was a girl Jimmy had never met- her face was pretty as she turned to him, and she wore her hair loose, in a curtain that fell past her shoulders. "Ivy Stuart, may I present Jimmy Kent," Alfred said, with perfect manners. Alfred had that wary expression that he got when he introduced Jimmy to any girl he fancied. Jimmy did, he admitted, have a tendency to lead on Alfred's potential dates- and he felt himself slipping into old habits as he took Ivy's hand, and tipped her a wink. "Pleasure," Jimmy said- and Ivy smiled back at him.

"So, what're we goin' to see? The double-action-feature?" Jimmy asked- and Alfred turned forward, and navigated the car out of the drive.

"_Brazil_," Ivy said- and she sighed, theatrically, and shot Jimmy a conspiratorial look over he shoulder. "It was William's pick, so don't blame me."

"That's a pity," Jimmy said, trying not to laugh. "Y'like fantasy stories, Willy?"

"I doubt you have ever seen it," William said, tightly, and Jimmy had to stifle his laughter with the back of his own hand.

They parked the car and fairly ran to the entrance of the theatre, with breath billowing around them in the cold air like so many smoke signals. At first glimpse of the Downton sign Jimmy took a breath- he had driven past it before, of course- but to see it up close was something else entirely. There was a large empty spot between the 'o' and the 'n' at the end of the sign, right above the marquee- as if the theatre really _had_ been 'Downtown', once, and the second 'w' had been lost. In the windows of the theatre, two life-sized cutouts of the Masked Man- identical to the one in Jimmy's room- peered around the movie posters.

"Jimmy!" Alfred called- and Jimmy realized that he had been standing still- and he jogged, to catch up with the three of them.

The man in the ticket-booth sat in a wheelchair with red ribbons tied at the armrests, obviously put there to make his seat match the trappings of the theatre behind him. It was a cheery enough picture- but the man's face was so grim and so stony that it somehow undid the work of festive ribbons. In Jimmy's head the juxtaposition was amusing- magical, even- and he took his ticket- discounted by route of Alfred's connections- and pressed into the lobby, with the others.

"You've really never been here before?" Ivy asked him- her attention was all on Jimmy, even as Alfred helped her to take off her coat- and Jimmy shook his head _no_, too spellbound by the trappings of the place to answer. It was like stepping back in time- the vaulted ceilings, the heavy red draperies suspended against the walls- the low, golden light that hung over everything- even the flawless polish of the floors. The place had been decorated for Christmas, though it was four weeks hence. Holly wreathed the antique chandeliers, and garlands heavy with ornaments edged every framed movie poster- and some poor employee had hung hundreds of little paper snowflakes from the ceiling, all at different heights. The modern registers at the concession stand- and the dress of the patrons- were the only things that gave away the true era. _It's lovely,_ Jimmy thought- and he started to say it aloud-but then stopped himself. It was a little too much enthusiasm to betray for something so innocuous as a theatre, even a particularly posh one.

"Jimmy wouldn't ever come, because he doesn't want to meet the Ma-" Alfred started- and Jimmy pulled himself out of his euphoria for long enough to shoot Alfred a look of unmistakable death.

"Because he doesn't want to waste his weekends," Alfred clumsily amended- and Ivy giggled. "Your weekends must be _very _important," Ivy said- and suddenly, to his right, Jimmy saw wretched William balk, as if he had been stung. "She must have picked up a shift," William said to Alfred, in an undertone- and Alfred, following William's glance, looked towards the concession stand.

"Bad luck, mate," Alfred said, in a low tone of sympathy. "You want me to get you somethin'?"

"Ginger beer and a Crunchie," William said- and then, he announced, in a louder voice- "I'll just check our coats and find seats-" and he walked away stiffly, coats in his arms.

"He didn't take _my _coat," Jimmy protested. "What's the matter with him, anyhow?"

"That's his ex," Alfred said, gesturing with as much subtlety as Jimmy had ever seen from him, towards the younger of the pair of women working the concession stand. "Daisy. She normally never works the weekends."

"Not- is that the girl who he asked t'marry him on, uh- the _third date_, or something?" Jimmy asked- and Ivy snickered, at his elbow.

"Not the third date," Alfred said, leaping to William's defense.

"Yeah, but then she got skeeved out and dumped him, right?"

Alfred and Ivy joined the queue at the concession stand, and Jimmy trailed after them. The paper snowflakes that hung from the ceiling were spangled with glitter where the light hit them- and Jimmy stood up on his toes, his arm outstretched, to touch one that was hung particularly low.

_This is the most wonderful place on all of earth,_ Jimmy thought- but it was a stoned-thought, and not reliable. In the light of cold sobriety it might not have been so marvelous.

"Jimmy!" Alfred said- and Jimmy dropped his arm, and stepped into the queue, several persons behind Alfred and Ivy. Alfred caught his eye, and mouthed _What are you doing?_

_Nothing,_ Jimmy mouthed back, with a perfectly casual shrug of his shoulders. Daisy was waiting on Alfred and Ivy with a smile of recognition- and Jimmy watched, as Alfred paid for Ivy's drink. _Hopeless idiot,_ Jimmy thought, feeling the barest twinge of pity for his friend. _She doesn't like you._

Jimmy got to the front, and was waited on by the girl of William's dreams. She didn't look like a heartbreaker, Jimmy thought. But you could never tell.

"What would y'like, sir?" Daisy asked him- and Jimmy cleared his throat. He was _starving_- now that he was here, his appetite, which had been lost all day, came back with vigor. "Largest size popcorn, largest size Coca-Cola, two Lion bars," Jimmy said- and then he was pushed aside, by a woman who elbowed past him.

"Hey, watch it!" Jimmy said- but the woman paid him no mind.

"Your _manager,_" She snapped, putting a hand right in Daisy's face. "_Now. _Get them _now."_

"Is there a problem?" The older concession stand woman, who looked like nothing so much to Jimmy as an underdone potato, came up behind Daisy, with an air of formidable protectiveness.

"I want your manager _immediately_," The woman said.

"Well, alright, I'll get him. Why don't you just wait over _here_," The potato-woman said, indicating that the complaining customer should remove herself from the queue. Underneath the potato's frizzy mop of red-going-on-white hair, Jimmy saw the face of a person you would not want to brawl with. _I hope they shout at eachother,_ he thought, with interest- but Daisy had recovered, and she was taking his money.

"I'll have that for you in a moment," Daisy said- and she busied herself with Jimmy's formidable order.

Jimmy's gaze drifted out over the room, picking out Alfred and Ivy, where they waited for him, some distance away. There were little twinkling lights adorning the moulding that he hadn't noticed before-

"What's the problem, then?" A voice said, to Jimmy's left. There was something familiar about the voice, though Jimmy could not place it- but some quality- something about it- cut through the noise of the room and the combined voices of all the people present, and drew Jimmy's fixed attention. He turned his head to the side, and saw that the disgruntled patron was angrily voicing her complaint to a dark-haired man. _The manager,_ Jimmy thought- and his gaze moved down- along the lines of the man's face- and Jimmy's heart skipped a sudden startled beat.

It was the line of the man's mouth that gave him away- the way the corners of his lips curved up, though his features were schooled into an expression of seriousness- and redness of his lips. And the tone of his voice- a touch impatient, even if perhaps he was trying to be placating. And the way the bones of his cheeks sliced down to meet the corners of his mouth. His eyes were miraculous in their lightness of color. One of the man's eyelids dipped lower than the other, giving him an asymmetrical look. Without that asymmetry he would have been _too_ handsome for everyday life, Jimmy thought. _Too handsome to go out in the world, with a face like that_. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly. Jimmy did not hear what the angry woman had said- but he heard the manager's voice, cold as stones.

"Madam," The manager said, with a tone of deference that poorly concealed an underlying note of contempt- "It _says_ 'live music' very specifically. We do live music for _all_ of our silent pictures. If the piano-playing bothers you, I can offer you a full refund-"

_The Masked Man,_ Jimmy thought. For a wild second it seemed as if someone had stolen all of the oxygen from the room.

"Sir? Sir?"

Jimmy blinked, and dragged his eyes back to his entire order, which was sitting before him- and the questioning gaze of Daisy the Heartbreaker.

"You're all set," Daisy said, looking at him as if he were a touch slow.

"Uh. Yes. Th-thank you," Jimmy said, gathering up his food and drink so hastily that a rain of popcorn fell onto the counter.

He stepped aside. The manager was giving the woman a complimentary voucher for another showing- and Jimmy noticed that he kept his left hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, doing everything with the right. _Look at me,_ Jimmy thought- and then he felt a wild fear grip him, as the man inclined his head upwards- as though he had heard Jimmy's silent directive. Up came the fine edge of the manager's jaw- and his gaze settled right on Jimmy's face.

_This isn't really happening, is it?_ Jimmy thought. There was a funny quality to the noise in the room, now- like someone was playing it back on an ancient gramophone. Everything had a scratchy, indistinct quality.

_Hello,_ Jimmy thought- and his lips parted, abysmally slowly. The manager was looking at him, from a meter away, with a scrutinizing intensity-

"Jimmy! Oy!" Alfred said- and the spell was broken. Alfred was waving at him, as if Jimmy weren't able to clearly see him, towering over all of the other people.

"Coming," Jimmy muttered- and he gave the manager a last look- but the man was turned away, speaking to the frizzy-haired potato woman.

"What's the matter?" Alfred asked- Ivy was walking ahead of them, throwing coy smiles behind herself, as they walked down a darkened hall.

"You didn't tell me the Masked Man _worked_ here!" Jimmy snapped- and Alfred raised his barely-there eyebrows. "Y'said you didn't want me to ruin his 'secret identity' for you," Alfred put back.

"I thought he was an actor! I didn't know he worked here!"

Getting stoned had been a mistake. Everything felt surreal- and Jimmy waded through the hall as if it were a dream-corridor. His words came out slower than he intended, taking eons upon his lips. His face felt hot.

"Well, he works here," Alfred said, looking down at Jimmy with a bemused expression. "He's Mr. Barrow. Thomas. The night manager. My Aunt knows him-"

"Thomas?" Jimmy repeated, trying out the name. "Thomas Barrow?"

"Yeah," Alfred said. Alfred now wore a _new_ look- of- good humor, or compassion, or something- something that Jimmy didn't like at all- but Jimmy could not stop himself from asking more questions. "What is he like?"

"Like? I don't know. Mr. Carson- he's the manager- supposedly he caught that bloke- _Thomas_- stealing from the theatre, ages ago. But instead of having him arrested, he made him dress up in a costume and advertise the theatre streetside. Then later they began to make the adverts..."

"He was a thief? And he's a manager now?" Jimmy pressed. "He worked his way up?"

"Yeah. Mr. Carson's real nice, y'know? There was a man, a vagrant, used to be outside just about every time we came. Mr. Carson gave him a job as a washroom attendant," Alfred said- and he moved quickly in front of Ivy, to hold the door open for her, juggling his food. Jimmy walked through, too, and Alfred got caught holding the door for a slew of other people, before he made it in.

The auditorium had a remarkable feeling of the past about it, Jimmy noticed. Even in the half-light he could see that the balcony had been preserved, that the walls were adorned with the same curtains that were in evidence in the main hall of the building, that the seats were of plush red velveteen. There was quite a crowd, and most of the seats were filled. From the center of a row towards the rear of the space, William raised his hand- and they moved to join him- Ivy and Jimmy slipping neatly past the other patrons, and Alfred lumbering through, with many apologies.

Ivy sat down one space away from William, so that Jimmy had no choice but to be next to her, no matter what seat he chose. He opted for the end- _only_ Ivy was preferable to Ivy-and-William, bookending him. Jimmy heard the poor unfortunate in the row behind make a sound of distress as Alfred sat down in front of them. A petite blonde usher in a cap walked the aisles with a light. On the screen, a dancing bag of popcorn informed everybody that they had better refrain from texting, and turn off their mobiles entirely for the duration.

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" Jimmy whispered to Ivy as the lights dimmed- and she giggled. "I can feel it," Jimmy added, darkly, drawing from her another laugh. Jimmy's head felt foggy. _The night manager,_ he thought, distinctly. _The Masked Man-_

Jimmy thought he would not be able to concentrate on the film- he was so keyed-up that his hands shook, even as he ate his popcorn- but such was the magic of the theatre- or drugs- that he was immersed by the end of the first scene. A family gathered around a tree, reading the end of _A Christmas Carol_, until policemen swarmed the house, and dragged the man away from his wife and children. It was a dystopian picture, Jimmy gathered- somewhat dated now, but still engaging. The protagonist was some kind of reluctant bureaucrat, ensconced in his own world of fantasy. Organizations with broadly ominous names like Central Services and the Ministry of Information ran the world entire. Every indoor room in the odd future-world had massive ducts running through it, purposeless things that seemed to Jimmy singularly sinister. The song _Aquarela do Brasil_- a song Jimmy loved to sing in accompaniment to his out-of-tune piano- played in variations: it was the film's theme.

"I think Kate Bush sings in this somewhere," Ivy whispered, during a scene where the protagonist imagined himself as some kind of heroic, armor-plated Icarus.

"Mmm," Jimmy said, noncomittally. He kept his gaze on the screen.

"I love her, don't you?" Ivy asked- and Jimmy shrugged. He wondered if the Masked Man enjoyed this particular film.

A scene came on where a woman was having the skin of her face elaborately stretched in some bizarre cosmetic procedure- and somewhere in the audience, a little girl burst into tears.

"_Sam_," said the woman, onscreen, as her face was stretched by an attendant doctor- "It's time for you to grow up and accept _responsibility_. Your poor father would be appalled at your lack of promotion!"

The parents of the girl led her up the aisle in the dark, and Jimmy turned to watch them pass.

"I don't want promotion!" Sam, the protagonist, retorted. "I'm happy where I am!"

Jimmy could feel Ivy's ankle pressing against his calf in the dark- and he shifted, on the pretense of unbuttoning his coat. Usually he would have been nicer to the girl- but Alfred had _asked_, specifically, for him to refrain- and anyhow, Jimmy had other things on his mind.

_Thomas Barrow,_ Jimmy thought, swirling the name is his head like a glass of wine. _Thomas Barrow. _It sounded common and yet had a singular ring to it- as if it could have been only that particular combination of sounds and syllables that would have ever given the Masked Man a name.

Jimmy set his popcorn aside. _I need to splash water on my face,_ Jimmy thought. Anything to bring back some sense of clarity. He rose to his feet, and an explosion in the film coincided with his rising. Onscreen the characters ignored the explosion- and so did Jimmy, as he navigated down the crowded aisle.

"Of course you want something!" A voice said shrilly, from the film. "You must have hopes, wishes, _dreams_-"

Jimmy nodded at the usher, who held the door open for him.

"No, nothing!" The protagonist answered. "Not even dreams!"

The door clicked shut behind Jimmy as the music swelled- and Jimmy stood in the hall, trying to orient himself. Somewhere a washroom hid among all the trappings of the season, watched over by a mad vagrant attendant. Supposedly. Alfred's word wasn't always the most reliable- he got his stories muddled-

Jimmy strolled down a hall- the Downton Theatre was old, and Jimmy could guess that auditoriums had been added on to the main structure years after it had been built- though it seemed as if he had been in one of the real, original theatres. He turned a corner, only to find that the hall's red carpet terminated at an exit.

_Hmmm,_ Jimmy thought- he wondered if the Masked Man- that is to say the night manager- came and went through the side exit- and if he did, what sights met his eyes when he stepped from here into one of many nights-

"May I help you?" A voice asked, pointedly- and Jimmy froze, with his palm to the door- and quickly turned, affecting nonchalance. _I doubt it-_ that had been what Jimmy was going to say- but it died on his lips as he turned around. The night manager stood before him, one eyebrow raised, an unlit cigarette between the fingers of his right hand.

"Uhhh..." Jimmy questioned every major life choice he had made, while his heart skipped a startled beat. "I..." Getting stoned had been a _huge_ mistake- Jimmy needed his wits, now, but he had none. "I was just lookin' for someone to bum a fag off."

For some reason the night manager laughed, his eyes still on Jimmy. "You want a cigarette?" The Masked- the _manager_- asked, looking amused.

"If y'would," Jimmy said- and somehow, though he was sure his face was as grey as anything, he forced a smile. The man was coming towards him- and pushing the door open, doing it with his right hand only, even as he held the cigarette. He opened the door wide enough, standing back, that Jimmy took the invitation and stepped through it, into an alleyway and the wintry cold.

It was a little stone alley, not at all remarkable- and yet that only seemed to make the night manager more miraculous in comparison to it- as if by his surroundings he were uplifted. The man kept the toe of one polished shoe in the door, holding it open a sliver- and he handed to Jimmy the cigarette he already held- and then, with his left hand still tucked in his pocket- the manager produced L & B's, and pulled another cigarette out with his red lips, pressing them to the hole at the top the of the pack. Jimmy watched him with fascination- the pack went back into his coat pocket- and then a silver lighter came out, all held by the same long-fingered hand.

Jimmy bowed forward, when the man offered him the flame- and then leaned up- the man lit his own, the lighter vanished into his pocket, and he withdrew the cigarette from between his pursed lips, exhaling.

"Thanks very much," Jimmy said. "Do you have only one hand, or something? I have to know." Jimmy paused, horrorstruck, at his own words, and breathed out smoke. _What the hell are you saying? What are you asking him that for?_

The man raised his eyebrows- and laughed- a delighted sound, not the derisive or angry tone that Jimmy had expected. "Blunt, aren't you?" The manager asked- and he removed his left hand from his pocket. Jimmy, who had been utterly prepared to see nothing but a stump- or perhaps a prosthesis- startled back anyhow. The man's left hand was missing half of the middle finger, and two-thirds of the ring finger. Now the manager twirled his hand in the frigid air, letting Jimmy see it from all angles. A watch gleamed on the wrist of his left hand, and then vanished, obscured by the cuff of his shirt. _How perfectly right,_ Jimmy thought, vaguely- not about the wound, but about the man entire. "Two hands," The manager affirmed, still with that upward quirk of his mouth, which Jimmy had learned from years of advertisements.

"Why keep your left hand hidden, then?" Jimmy asked. He was embarrassed- both at his own stupidity and at the fixed attention of the Masked Man. The manager, that was.

"Ah- vanity, I think," The manager said, dryly- he was giving Jimmy a look of intense curiosity that Jimmy felt unequal to. "What's your name?" The man pressed- and he transferred his cigarette to his damaged left hand, offering his right hand to Jimmy.

"J-Jimmy Kent," he offered- and clasped the other man's hand with his own.

"Thomas Barrow," the man said. _Thomas_, Jimmy thought, though he had known it already. Thomas's pulse beat steadily against Jimmy's palm, the heat of it a counterpoint to the freezing air- and for a moment Jimmy could not bring himself to drop his hand.

"I know," Jimmy said. "My best mate's aunt is Sarah- uh- Sarah O'Brien."

"You're friends with... um... _Alfred_, isn't it?" Thomas said. Something about his eyes made Jimmy feel unclothed, even as he stood there in his winter coat. "I've never seen you before."

"I've never come here before," Jimmy answered.

"And why not?" Thomas asked, with an elaborate roll of his eyes. "It's the most wonderful place on earth."

Jimmy was smiling like a stoned idiot. He couldn't help it. Something about that- about Thomas's obvious distaste for his job- provoked him into a spirit of goodwill. Thomas held his cigarette between the unmarred thumb and index finger of his left hand, and Jimmy forced back the urge to interrogate Thomas about how he had come by his wound.

"What're you seeing?" Thomas asked, into the air between them- and Jimmy realized he had gone silent, studying the other man.

"Oh, you know," Jimmy said, unable to find the title within his rattled skull. "Uh..." he hummed the theme of the film, and then sang it aloud. "Duh duh _duh_, duh duh _duh _duh duh-"

"_Brazil_," Thomas said, sounding amused.

"Right," Jimmy said, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. Thomas was dressed in a vest and a crisp shirt, with only a suitjacket over it- but he did not shiver as Jimmy did- however Jimmy noticed that Thomas's cheeks and the tip of his nose were going red, in deference to the cold.

"That's an odd one. It reminds me of _Modern Times,_" Thomas said, flicking ash away from himself as if it had done something to offend him. "A little."

"You like Chaplin?" Jimmy asked, inclining towards Thomas a bit.

"I like him alright. You just _see_ everything, working here," Thomas said.

"Are you the Mad Masked Moviegoing Man?" Jimmy asked. _Of course you are,_ Jimmy thought, inanely. _Hello. My name is Jimmy Kent. I have a life-sized cardboard figure of you in my sitting room._

"Hmm. Nobody knows who _he_ is," Thomas said, grinning. "He's a spectre. Comes an' goes."

Their eyes met- and Thomas seemed as if he were going to say something further- but then something _buzzed_- and Thomas clicked his tongue, as if annoyed, and pulled his mobile from the pocket of his trousers.

"Ach," Thomas said, studying the screen.

"What?" Jimmy pressed. It wasn't appropriate to question him, maybe, but Thomas answered as easily as Jimmy had asked.

"My ride home. Her motor's on the fritz. I'll have to take a taxi," Thomas said, his mouth turning downwards. Jimmy laughed at his expression outright. "You make it sound as if y'were being sent to your _death_," Jimmy said, through laughter.

Thomas scowled at Jimmy, but his eyes crinkled with good humor. Jimmy had imagined that the Masked Man would be particularly talented at expressions of unpleasantness, but he had seen no evidence of any such predisposition in Thomas Barrow. "I bloody well _am,_" Thomas said, with a shudder. "I'm enemies with every cabbie in this city, just about."

"Don't you drive?" Jimmy asked, trying to imagine how Thomas had gone about becoming nemesis to an entire fleet of taxi drivers.

"I had my license revoked," Thomas said. His voice sounded a touch guarded. "I can get it again when I'm thirty."

"When you're thirty?" Jimmy asked. Curiosity worked through him like sparks, warming him, despite the cold alleyway and the colder night. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty-seven, whaddya think?" Thomas asked, looking- looking- _haughty_? Maybe. Jimmy had thought the Masked Man haughty before- but now he was not sure if _haughty_ was an expression he could apply to someone so- so very masculine-seeming. Something about the way Thomas carried himself seemed to contradict his appearance, though... as if he were a jumble of different things- a great complexity.

"How old are you, anyways?" Thomas asked, studying Jimmy. "Eighteen? Still got spots?"

"I'm in my _twenties _also," Jimmy said, feeling insulted- and yet not feeling very insulted at all, really. There was something to it when two people talked to one another like this, as if they were-

"How far into your twenties? A day? A week?" Thomas pressed- and Jimmy threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of surrender. "Something like that," Jimmy admitted. Thomas dragged one hand through his own pomaded hair, rearranging it.

"What did you lose your license for?" Jimmy asked. He thought that each of his questions had by far overstepped the bounds of good manners- that _this_ would certainly be the inquiry that made Thomas dislike him- but Thomas only tilted his head upwards, expelling a long stream of smoke into the air above his head.

"Stealing car parts," Thomas said- and he inclined his gaze suddenly downwards, and fixed Jimmy with a flat look, as if gauging Jimmy's reaction. Jimmy felt heat rush to his own face, and realized, chagrined, that he was blushing. Blushing. Over stolen car parts. Or over his own audacity in asking- Jimmy couldn't tell which.

"Stealing car parts," Jimmy repeated, in the same tone that Thomas had used. "More than once?"

Thomas nodded. There was some sort of fierce interest in Thomas's expression that made Jimmy want to take a step closer to him- but Jimmy refrained, not certain where the impulse had come from.

"I can give you a ride home," Jimmy said, taking a breath. His cigarette was spent, and he flicked it aside without looking. "I brought my own car." This was a colossal lie, but Jimmy _went_ with it, not certain exactly what he was doing. Thomas looked inordinately pleased- there was something soft about his eyes- and that look made Jimmy's heart race, and his mouth run away with him.

"I don't want to put you out," Thomas said.

"You'll only put me out if you steal bits of my car," Jimmy retorted, quick as anything- and Thomas blinked, and smothered a laugh with his unwounded hand.

"No," Thomas said, when he had recovered. Jimmy's cheeks hurt from smiling. _What must I look like?_ He wondered, vaguely. "I don't get off 'till one," Thomas explained. "I'm the last to leave, besides the cleaners."

"Oh. Oh, well, I was- I was goin' to stay for the next show, anyhow," Jimmy answered, casually. In his head he envisioned the ease which he would have affected over a game of cards. "The third part of the Gilliam-thing. The Baron-something. The Munchy Baron."

"_The Adventures of Baron Munchausen_," Thomas supplied. "That one isn't as good."

"Well, I was planning on staying- and that won't be over until- what, like half-midnight? I'll wait for you in the lobby." Jimmy saw, with no small feeling of triumph, that Thomas was going to acquiesce- and Thomas nodded, and pitched his cigarette into the darkness of the night, kicking the door open with his foot.

"I should be getting back," Thomas said- and he leaned against the door, tucking his left hand back into the pocket of his suitjacket. "And thank you," Thomas added, as Jimmy stepped into the building, passing by Thomas so closely that he accidentally brushed against his arm.

"Uh. It's no trouble," Jimmy said, moving past Thomas and into the close warmth of the hall. Behind them, the door clicked shut, hiding the wintry night. "No trouble to help out a celebrity."

"A celeb-" Thomas made a sound of disbelief. "I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a _celebrity_."

Jimmy turned to look at him, and saw that Thomas's face held a swirl of feelings, none of which Jimmy could identify- because they had only met a few minutes previous, and Jimmy did not know Thomas well enough to read emotion in his face. _I wish I did,_ Jimmy thought. _I wonder what on earth he's thinking. That I'm mad, probably._

"Very glad to have met you, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, trying to make a smooth exit. "And I'll see you at one. Shall we shake again?"

Thomas faced him- and Jimmy, in the act of extending his hand- for no particular reason other than wanting to clasp the hand of the Masked Man again- spied a bit of cigarette ash on Thomas's angular cheek, and pointed at his face. "You have something there," Jimmy said, indicating his own cheek- and Thomas swiped at his face, and missed.

"Just _there_," Jimmy said, tapping his own face, again- and this time Thomas put his hand up to the wrong side of his own face. "No, _here,_" Jimmy said, with a snort- and he put his own finger to Thomas's cheek, coming away with the fleck of ash.

"Got it," Jimmy said. Thomas's face was red. _From the cold_, Jimmy reminded himself. For a moment they faced one another, not speaking- and then Jimmy cleared his throat, and turned away. "I'll... just see you later, then," Jimmy said.

"Yes," Thomas said, as they walked back towards the lobby. "Later. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent."

"Jimmy," Jimmy said, as he reached the door- and he looked over his shoulder. "Call me Jimmy."

"Jimmy," Thomas said, like his name was a reply- and then he turned away.

_I touched his face,_ Jimmy thought. He took a breath before he opened the door. _Why in hell did I do that?_ He didn't know. But the tip of his finger tingled, where it had pressed against the cold skin of the Masked Man. Of Thomas Barrow, that was.

The usher met Jimmy at the door, and Jimmy navigated the crowded aisle, slumping down in his seat. He felt strangely giddy, like the theatre seat was just as likely to spin him into the air as it was to remain fixed upon the ground.

"You were gone for a year," Ivy whispered, inclining her head towards him. "Alfred ate most of your popcorn."

"Oh. Right. Psst. _Alfred_," Jimmy hissed, leaning over Ivy.

"Shhh," Alfred said, his eyes glued to the picture.

On the screen, the woman from the opening scene had made a reappearance. Now she shrieked at the protagonist: _"What _have you _done _with his _body?_"

"_Alfred_," Jimmy said, more insistently.

"Shut it, Jimmy, will you?" Alfred said.

"Alfred," Jimmy said, as patiently as he was able. He leaned backwards, looking at Alfred from behind Ivy''s head. "The three of you have to get a cab home. I'll pay for it. I need to borrow your car."

Alfred turned, finally, to look at Jimmy.

"I need your car," Jimmy said, again.

Alfred stared at Jimmy, with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

"Are you deaf?" Jimmy asked, rattling his own chair in consternation. "I need your _car_! I need your bloody car! I _need _it!"

"Be _quiet_," said a woman from the row behind them.

Alfred, as if he had been given a very confusing problem that he was only just beginning to grasp, looked at Jimmy with a clouded expression.

"Jimmy," Alfred said, "What?"


End file.
